Finding The Right Road
by Cousin Isobel
Summary: A Turner family oneshot based on the series 3 spoiler (if you don't want any of series 3 spoiled, don't read this!). When Patrick and Shelagh receive bad news, they must try and find the right road, despite the fog that obscures it at first.


_**A/N:** I've had this in my head for a long time, and desperately wanted to actually get it down in writing before series 3 starts (IT'S LESS THAN TWO HOURS THE WAIT IS NEARLY OVER) so I'm sorry for sad fic like this on such a joyful day but I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

Shelagh stepped out of the bathroom, slightly dazed with the disappointment of it all, the sickening reality of her situation having been reassured. _Seven months. _Seven months of marriage - and all of the things that came with it - and still, nothing.

She knew that these things took time. Maybe she was being too impatient: after all, she reminded herself, Rome wasn't built in a day. Or in seven months, for that matter. But she knew that if things were normal, she should definitely conceive within a year, and that year was ticking away, bringing more and more doubt that something was wrong.

"Timothy's in bed," Patrick announced as he strode into his bedroom - now _their _bedroom, after so many months of being empty. Noticing her lack of reply and her blank stare, he took a step towards her, concerned. "Shelagh, my dearest, is everything all right?"

When, eventually, she snapped back into reality to address him, her voice was soft and quiet, the words slow and carefully chosen. "Patrick..." he took her hands and led her gently towards the bed, where they sat down side by side, he angled slightly towards her and she slightly away from him. "...it's been seven months." Heavy silence hung in the air. If Patrick had suspected what she was going to say, he let her say it anyway, if only to check that he had been right. "Mother nature is still visiting monthly." She cursed herself internally for the ridiculous phrasing: until half a year ago, she had talked openly to strangers about such matters without the slightest embarrassment, and yet she couldn't do the same with her husband, who was a _doctor, _for goodness' sake.

"Shelagh..." Patrick gripped her delicate hands more tightly in his, but couldn't find the words to say anything in reply. It was a hammering blow to him as well as to her; their anticipation all for nothing even after another month had passed. "...These things take time."

"I know. I know they do, but they don't normally take this much time, do they?" She knew that it was true, but posed the question with the faintest hope that he could shed some new light onto the situation.

"...It's... unusual. Normally, I would say wait until a year is up before worrying. But..."

"But the TB." She finished, finally voicing the worry that had been circulating more and more with every new month that ticked by, like a bomb waiting to explode.

He was quiet, looking down, trying to take it in himself. Eventually, he found the energy to raise his head, and look at her - his beautiful young wife, waiting in vain for the one thing that newlyweds waited for. "...It's a possibility." His voice was heavy. "I didn't want to mention it unless the need arose, but I think now is the time to address it. To be sure."

"There are tests?" Shelagh was looking away as she said it, trying to conceal the tear that slipped down her soft cheek in the warm glow cast by the bedside lamp.

"Yes. Please don't worry yet, my love. Not until we're sure." Patrick sucked in a deep breath and managed a smile. "Until then, let's continue enjoying the pleasures of being newlyweds," he whispered suggestively, leaning in towards her.

"Not tonight, Patrick," she replied blankly as she crawled under the bedclothes and switched off the light, leaving him to go to bed lonely, just as he had done in all of the months before their marriage.

* * *

As Patrick placed his hand on the front door, he almost turned back. He almost ran away to sit in his car and cry, just as he had done in those months prior to Shelagh. He almost drove away to never come back, so that he could avoid the conversation that had to be had. _Almost. _

But he had done difficult things in his life. It was his job to deliver bad news, after all, but rarely was it so personal. The one thing that made him open the door and walk inside was remembering that he had managed before: if he could tell Timothy that his mother was dead, surely he could do this. Surely.

"Shelagh? Tim? I'm home," he began, attempting to sound jovial, not wanting to betray more than was necessary. As he hung up his coat and his scarf, Shelagh stepped out into the hallway, looking radiant, a flour-covered apron covering her front and a healthy flush in her cheeks. As he smiled at her, he contemplated that her beauty and relative youth only made his task all the harder, and as they embraced, he took strength from her warmth and the now familiar curves of her frame.

"How was your day?" she asked, as was their normal greeting.

"Oh, quite alright," he replied distractedly, following her through into the sitting room as she headed towards the kitchen. Just as we had been about to leave the surgery, he had been called out to a forceps delivery, and although it had not taken as long as he had feared, he had returned home far later than he would have liked.

"I'm afraid Timothy and I have eaten, but your dinner's in the oven." She was so happy in that moment, completely oblivious of what was to come. It was only when he failed to reply that her mind began to register that something was wrong, and when she turned around moments later to see him standing in the centre of the room, like a ship that had become unmoored, her heart plummeted into her stomach. "Patrick?" Her voice was tiny, only barely audible above the background noise of the wireless and the hum of the oven.

His eyes as he looked up at her betrayed everything instantly, and she walked, dazed, towards the sofa, staring blankly at the floor as she sat down, the world spinning around her as the walls she had built around her growing fears came crashing down. Patrick sat next to her, silent, still not quite in possession of the courage to voice the confirmation that she needed. "Tell me," she whispered, still not looking his way. "Just say it, please, Patrick."

"It's extremely unlikely that we can ever conceive. The TB left scarring - bad enough that even if we do conceive, the chance of reaching term is tiny." The words hung in the air, not providing relief, but only confirming their collective dread. Her only small comfort his use of 'we'. He wasn't framing it as her fault. He wasn't suggesting that she was a failure or that she was alone because of this. And yet she still felt responsible, not knowing that he felt just as responsible; even though neither of them was to blame.

"I'm - I'm so sorry." Patrick's voice cracked midsentence as Shelagh finally turned to face him and collapsed against him, tears flowing silently from her cheek onto his jacket. "I - I spent years knowing that children were out of the question - and then when I married you and realised that they could be a part of my life - I was so excited, so hopeful - and - and that makes it all the harder to have it snatched away from me now." Her words almost broke his heart, to the point that her mere presence in his life was the only thing left that was holding it together. He didn't try to comfort her, knowing it was futile. Instead, he tried to make her understand that she wasn't alone. "I always wanted Timothy to have siblings," he began, his voice low as he murmured into her hair. "When Margaret was pregnant, I expected it to be the first of many. But things went wrong during labour, and we were told in no uncertain terms that if she carried again, she would almost certainly die. So we stopped trying, and we were grateful for Tim, and for each other, and that was enough in the end, Shelagh. You and I, we still have each other. We'll find a way, I promise you." And as she sat up, beginning to stem the flow of tears, he leaned in to kiss her, hoping that it would be enough to start healing the rift between them.

Shelagh stood up suddenly, the tears coming thick and fast again. "You can't make everything better with a _kiss, _Patrick! It's not the answer! You can't honestly think that a _kiss _is enough to heal all of our wounds every time!" Almost as soon as her outburst had begun, it was over, and she crossed over to him, taking his hands in hers. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. I just - I couldn't think straight. This isn't your fault. You didn't deserve that -"

He cut her off, pulling her into his arms. "Shh. You don't need to apologise to me for anything."

As they embraced, the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard as Timothy clattered down the stairs. With his braces, he could manage the flat, but stairs were still somewhat a problem and he tripped down the last few steps, clinging onto the newel post to keep himself upright. "Dad? Shelagh? What's wrong? Why are you shouting?"

"Oh, Timothy, I'm so sorry, Shelagh said tearfully, holding her arm out to invite him to join her and Patrick on the sofa.

As Timothy was welcomed into the embrace, Shelagh and Patrick's eyes met and they both nodded slightly in unspoken agreement. "We've just had some bad news, Tim, that's all," Patrick answered.

"You won't be having any more brothers or sisters, Timothy," Shelagh said softly.

"Is it because you were ill?" Timothy asked, sounding a little bit surprised but not overly upset.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," he said, hugging them both. Patrick and Shelagh settled into the hug and it felt as though, with each other, their small family would always find a way, no matter how treacherous the storm.

They sat like that for a few minutes, in comfortable silence, before Patrick sighed and said "come on Tim, up to bed."

"Yes, I think I'll go too, if you don't mind eating dinner alone, Patrick - I'm rather tired." Shelagh added. Patrick could see that she was emotionally exhausted and nodded. "Of course." Timothy headed towards the stairs without grumbling, for once, and Shelagh rested a light hand on his back as she followed behind him, refusing to risk letting the one child that she did have fall. As Patrick finished up downstairs, she and Timothy prepared themselves for bed, each in their respective rooms, but, as she did every night, she could hear Timothy's braces clattering as he flung them across the floor of his bedroom. He had been so patient and selfless, and for the past few months, this small night-time ritual had been his only expression of his anger - only when he thought that nobody would notice. But Shelagh did notice. And she realised with a surge of guilt that she'd almost been too preoccupied with the idea of bringing more children into the world that she hadn't fully been there for Timothy - not quite to the extent that she should have been. She was the only mother he had now, and he was the only child that she would ever have, and it took that realisation to understand that he was enough for her. As she heard Patrick's footsteps entering Timothy's room to say goodnight, she realised that Timothy was _more_ than enough - how lucky, really, that she should be able to have such a wonderful son even when she was infertile.

_Infertile. _The word hit her like a ton of bricks and her hand flew to her lower abdomen as the fresh realisation of what she had lost swept over her. She sank to her knees, letting out a sob filled with the pain that she couldn't quite understand - even when she had these wonderful things in her life, she couldn't help but ache for what was lost, selfish as she thought it was.

Hearing the sound, Patrick was at her side within moments, offering the best comfort that he could as helpless sobs wracked her body. "Shh, my love, it'll be alright. We'll find a way," he whispered lovingly into her hair as he rubbed gentle circles on her back. A second later, Timothy, concerned, ran across the landing and tripped on the carpet, falling towards them only to be caught in the consummate and steady arms of his father, who dragged him lovingly into the embrace, where Shelagh took the young boy's hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. "Thank goodness for you, Timothy, my dearest boy."

The Turner family had braved more than their fair share of storms, and none of the three doubted that there were more storms to come, but their ship would not be sunk. No, they would find a way, for they were on the right road, and they no longer knew exactly where they were going, but of one thing they were never more certain: wherever they were going, they were going there together.


End file.
